Tomatoes, a Broody Hen, and the Scent of Summer on the Wind
By the time I finished my first cup of coffee, I knew it was going to be a tomato day.
The sun was already warming the porch boards under my bare feet, and the robins were out in full song. The goats were unusually quiet, napping in their favorite dusty patch near the fence, and even the chickens seemed content to scratch in lazy circles.
The earth has been holding on to water for over a week now, but this morning when I sank my hand into the tomato bed, the soil yielded just enough—no squish, no clumps. Just crumbly, dark richness. Ready.
Turning the Beds and Letting the Soil Breathe
The tomato patch sits along the south side of the garden, where the beds get sun from mid-morning until late afternoon and are tucked behind the windbreak of elderberry shrubs and woven wire fencing. I’ve grown tomatoes here for three years now, rotating their placement each season and amending as I go.
I forked the topsoil loose, layered in a mix of compost and worm castings from my bin, and added a scoop of wood ash from the stove for potassium. With each forkful turned, I could smell the scent of summer waking up—tomato leaves, warm dirt, crushed weeds.
I gave the beds a deep watering at the base, then laid out the trellis stakes and marked where each plant will go once the starts are ready. I won’t transplant until next week, but just staking it out gave me that early thrill—like setting the table before company arrives.
The anticipation is half the joy.
A Broody Surprise
While I was still in the garden haze, I wandered up to the coop for the midday egg check and found Margie—one of my speckled Sussex hens—curled up tight in the corner nest box.
At first, I thought she was just taking a mid-afternoon siesta. But when I reached in to gather eggs, she flared her wings, gave a low rumble of warning, and gave me the kind of death glare only a broody hen can deliver.
Well then. I backed out slowly and gave her space.
It looks like she’s decided to set. Again.
This will be Margie’s third go at motherhood if I let her do it. She’s a good broody—tenacious, protective, and an excellent mama once the chicks arrive. But I wasn’t planning to start another clutch so soon after Hazel’s.
Still, I collected six eggs from the other boxes, marked them with pencil, and slid them under her just in case. She didn’t flinch. That sealed it.
I’ll give her a few days to prove she’s serious before committing, but something tells me I’m going to be running two brooders by mid-April.
Garden Wandering and Tiny Discoveries
After the coop visit, I took a stroll through the rest of the garden.
- Lettuce is starting to form its first true leaves.
- Radish sprouts are up in clean rows like green exclamation marks.
- The peas are climbing the bottom rung of the trellis—how fast they shoot up when the sun turns warm.
- And the first asparagus tip has finally broken the soil—just a single spear, but it made me whoop out loud. First harvest is always the most satisfying.
The bees were busy on the rosemary, and a swallowtail floated over the fence like a ribbon caught on the wind.
It’s hard to believe it was muddy just days ago.
A Visit and a Trade
Around 4 p.m., Daniel from up the ridge stopped by on his ATV, holding a crate of bare root strawberry runners. His patch got overrun with Bermuda, and he was thinning the strong ones.
“You want ‘em?” he asked. “They’re hardy. Not fancy, but they bear sweet.”
I said yes before he could finish the sentence. In return, I offered him a pint of last year’s blackberry jam and a dozen fresh eggs. It was a good trade. He nodded once and said, “See you at feed day,” and took off before I could offer him tea.
Some folks speak in soil and trades. I understand that language just fine.
Supper on the Step
Dinner was quick tonight:
- Toasted sourdough with goat cheese
- A salad from the first thinning of kale and baby greens
- Scrambled eggs with chopped chives and thyme
I ate it sitting on the front step, watching the light bend low over the pasture. A pair of deer picked their way through the treeline behind the goat shelter, and the frogs started tuning up early tonight.
Hazel’s chicks were quiet, huddled in the warmth of their corner. Margie sat stoic in her nest. The rest of the hens murmured on the roost.
It was a good day.
One of those days that doesn’t need documenting on paper—but you write it down anyway, because it would feel like a shame not to.
Final Thoughts
Every year, there’s one day in spring where everything feels just right. The soil gives, the seeds swell, the hens go broody, and the goats stretch out in the sun like queens.
Today was that day.
There will be rain again. There will be mishaps and heat and bugs and disappointment. But for now, I’ve got my hands in soil, a hen on eggs, seedlings on the rise, and neighbors who show up with strawberries and don’t expect anything in return but honesty and good jam.
And that’s enough.
Until tomorrow—
Amanda @ Wister Creek